


Invisible Backdoors

by dontdierobb



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, tfw gay loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontdierobb/pseuds/dontdierobb
Summary: Written for the LGBT Fallout Winter Exchange on tumblr (@lgbtfalloutwinterholiday) for tumblr user Jinglyjangly for the following prompt: "I’d like to see how they [Arcade and The King] first meet in the old mormon fort, which id like it be when he first brought in Rex to get checked on.”Thank you Orla for the quick Beta!





	Invisible Backdoors

The sun begins to set on Freeside, painting all the tents in the old Mormon Fort cherry red. A column of light makes its way through the opening of one, warmly crawling up Arcade’s blushing cheek. The sunlight in his eye pulls him out of his deep contemplation. **  
**

Putting down the bundle of yellow paper on the workspace, he shifts his weight on his solid wooden chair, flexing his sore butt cheeks, and lets out a frustrated groan.

_Just get up and go. Pick up your bag and get up and go._

Arcade isn’t the type to hit the Wrangler after a shift– not that he wouldn’t enjoy a watered down mutfruit juice with the boys, but the company there is too hazardous for a man in hiding. Unfortunately, it is pretty much the only way for anyone in the fort to know who they share a shift with; and so, besides Julie who had initially introduced him to the camp, Arcade doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends. He doesn’t lack charisma, far from that, but he had the habit of driving overtly heterosexual people away. To his own great displeasure, Arcade had quickly come to the conclusion that most, if not all the Followers in the small Freeside camp were desperately straight.

Save for Julie, who was desperately absent for the week on an errand, leaving Arcade alone with his thoughts. With a thought.

“Beatrix.” He tries to pass his surprise for a greeting when the guard briskly pushes through the tent’s canvas.

“Hey there…” she trails off, barely giving Arcade any mind as she makes her way to the bunk beds. “… Sorry, forgot your name there, sweetheart.”

“It’s Arcade,” he supplies, giving her a polite smile and nod, although Beatrix doesn’t bother to look his way. The old ghoul kicks off her boots and throws her hat and shotgun on the bottom bed. Arcade quietly waits for a response, then busies himself once again with the mess on the table when he hears the bed’s ladder creak with the weight of her. He puts all his tools and samples together, resuming his internal conflict.

"You’re working late. The tent’s usually empty when I take my nap,” she says after a pause.

"I…” Arcade thinks for half a moment, then awkwardly stands up, safely out of Beatrix’s sight. “I was about to head out, actually,” he says, willing confidence into his voice.

She gives a dry, mocking chuckle. "You and the docs getting one of those fruity virgin drinks at the Wrangler? Picking up some potential clients?”

Using the reflection of a half rusted tool platter, Arcade fixes his hair before picking up his bag. He opens his mouth to respond when the sound of an oil drum being knocked over loudly echoes and cuts him off mid-thinking.

“Did you just hear–” Arcade leans back and looks over through the slit to the courtyard when he hears distant arguing.

Beatrix sits up slightly, squinting her pale eyes over to the source of the sound for a moment, before laying back down. “Honey, I’ve got a thirty minute nap break, l and I ain’t about to waste it on a big rat… or whatever that is.”

A young doctor whose name escapes Arcade pulls the tent’s canvas over her head with one arm. She gestures for him to come outside with the other, panic in her eyes and pain all over her face as she hops on one leg, holding her foot. “Fuck, ow. Shit. Come on Gannon, you’re the tallest one here! Come on! Don’t just stand there!”

Taken by surprise and worried by all this agitation, Arcade bolts outside, confused.

“What’s happening?” He adjusts his bag over his shoulders as he half-jogs alongside her across the dusty pink courtyard.

They’re already down the stairs leading up to the western tower when she replies. “I didn’t want to ask Beatrix, I was worried it’d send the wrong message, with her shotgun and whatnot– And Julie isn’t here so, I just– and I don’t want to mess with these guys, but he just completely lost it–” She rushes the end of her sentence once they get to the top.

“These guys? What on earth are you on about?” Arcade starts dreading the worst now, stumbling on his feet.

“You’re a big guy, just… escort him out or something!” The woman blurts out as she pushes Arcade into the room.

The first thing Arcade sees is Doctor April Mortimer’s face, contorted in fear, and backed down into the corner. A table lay upside down on the floor, and facing Mortimer, a figure dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, clearly the assailant. Arcade doesn’t think before reaching out to firmly grab the stranger’s arm, yanking him away from April, but towards himself. The blow is instant— the stranger’s fist connecting with his left cheek. Electric pain flashes down his neck, sending him back.

“Oh my God! I am so–”

Arcade can only see a blur of the man through crooked glasses before managing to aim a punch right in the middle of his face. The stranger stumbles back on clicking waxed shoes and collapses to his hands and knees, covering his face in pain. Only then does Arcade realize he just punched the man mid-apology.

“What the hell is all this racket about?” Arcade and he jumps, surprised, and turns to see Beatrice in the entrance. She taps the length of her shotgun against the side of her thigh nonchalantly as she walks in. “Some people are trying to catch some sleep around here.”

The stranger doesn’t reply, instead focusing on Doctor Mortimer, pushing her away lightly as she goes to examine his bloodied nose.

“I’m fine, Doc. Shouldn’t have lost my cool.“ He turns slightly, and Arcade is a little taken aback by how handsome this man’s blurry profile is. The stranger begins to walk past to exit the room, and Arcade adjusts his glasses, willing to get a better look at him as he walks by. He misses a glimpse when the doctor blocks his view.

"Did you break your nose?!” She leans over to look at him, pale as a sheet. He barely hears her. In the hallway, the muffled voice of the stranger is all Arcade can listen to.

“… Best for now… I’ll send a guy to pick him up.”

That voice is ridiculously suave.

The doctors have Arcade sit, next to a sleeping dog with strange cybernetic enhancements. Arcade keeps his head down, tissue pressed to his nostril, after losing the age old argument of whether one should keep their head back or forward with a bleeding nose with Mortimer. He bitterly lets her win to ask about the pet.

Mortimer tilts his head back to remove the gauze from inside his nostril, Arcade flinching at the touch. “Poor thing was having seizures. We just sedated him when he became stable but there’s nothing much we can do. Brain damage.” She carefully wipes the dry blood off the bridge of his nose. “I know money isn’t a problem to some people, but we can’t even afford selling the sedatives right now. Not until Julie comes back.” She hands him a piece of clean cloth. “Blow your nose.”

“…I see.” Arcade carefully places the fabric as to not hurt himself, and fails anyway. Through his pain he still manages to snap back. “I’m not sure providing flesh punching-bags to unhappy customers is a sustainable solution.” He looks in disgust at the bloody mess over the tissue that came from his own body. Mortimer has the smallest smile in response.

“It was a misunderstanding. He was upset at the news, flipped a table… You really didn’t need to punch him back, Arcade.”

“Oh. I guess I–” He sucks in a breath through his mouth when she dabs gauze at a sensitive spot. “I guess I should apologize then.”

She walks back to her table to grab a tray and glances up at him with extreme seriousness. “We expect you to.” She walks back and hands the tray to him. “We might get into big trouble if you don’t, actually.”

He holds it under his chin and frowns at her.“Just who was this guy? You’re making it sound like I punched the king of Freeside.”

Confusion burrowed Mortimer’s brow, her eyes focused on Arcade’s nose. “…The King. It was The King.”

Arcade is speechless for a split second, during which April carefully applies her thumbs to both sides of his nose. She cuts his emotional face-journey off short to readjust the bridge. He silently screams, legs twitching, doing his best not to shoot his head back. As soon as the pain devolves into a dull throbbing, he stammers incoherently, half laying on his side and panting.

“You really don’t know what The King looks like?”

It takes him a moment to register that he’s being spoken to. He squints and pouts, getting used to the tingling and burning when he breathes. “…No I… I just got here, I don’t even know the names of everyone in the Fort…!” Arcade sighs with frustration. “This is… absurd…” He slouches forward on the patient bench, elbows on his knees, and recoils in pain when he tries to put his face in his hands.

“Arcade, it’s not a tragedy.  The King’s actually quite nice, we just can’t afford risking hostility from our host.”

He sits straighter, awkwardly changing positions. He looks in the distance and sighs again. “I was about to visit the school,” he says, defeated.

"You were..?” She looks up from her clipboard. “For a delivery?”

Arcade feels pink bloom in his cheeks. Damn, how could he phrase this without looking like a needy little idiot. “No, not on delivery, just… just visiting, I suppose.”

“Well, you’ve got a reason to go now I guess,” he hears Beatrix joke from the stone staircase.

Arcade stands up, straightening his blouse and hair with a touch of indignation. Of course neither of them would understand why he is panicking so much about the subject; and he certainly wouldn’t dive into that embarrassing topic without prodding.

April walks past him with her jacket on. "We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I have to do some rounds in the tents, don’t close the rooms when you leave. For the dog. And don’t blow your nose.” She glances at the peacefully sleeping old hound.

Arcade quietly nods in her direction as he collects his bag and picks up some gauze for himself.

Beatrix breaks the silence again from the doorframe with a loud laugh. “Is that why you were acting all flustered back in the tent? You looked like you were going on your first date.”

Arcade almost squirms in embarrassment. “I was… anxious…” He picks up his bag that had ended up on the floor across the room, red faced and avoiding eye contact. “… Anxious that I would somehow show up on a quiet night and make a fool of myself- or that I would sneeze loudly during a break in a song– I didn’t think I’d accidentally partake in mutual roughhousing with the guy who runs the damn place.” He looks at her as he rambles and thinks his complexion mustn’t have been much different from hers right now. Unsure of what to do with his own hands, he checks the inside of his bag to indicate the conversation is coming to an end. He never much liked talking about himself so much. Too much room to slip up. “I just wanted to make a good impression,” he concludes.

”… It’s not like the School is some kind of exclusive club kiddo,“ she snorts. "It’s just a gang of rowdy orphaned kids and a middle aged guy playing house. You’ll apologize tomorrow and pick a different club. Plus, their shows are garbage.”

Not satisfied with how the conversation had taken a turn to infantilize him, Arcade can’t help but retort.

“I know that. It’s not the reason I wanted to go.”

Beatrix is ready to drop the teasing until she puts two and two together. She makes an obnoxious hum of realization that makes Arcade’s eyes roll. “If you just want to fuck, Doc, there’s much easier ways.”

Arcade scoffs like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard in his life. “I don’t _want to fuck_ ,” he air quotes. He hesitates. "I mean, well… Maybe I do, in general, but not in this context, and not that it concerns you in the least– and… I have to go now. So.”

The guard has a wheezing, rough laugh, aged and used by cigarettes and radiation. “Honestly, I really don’t give a shit… But… The King’s a fair man. If he was really mad, you wouldn’t be standing right now.”

Arcade stops in his tracks to look at Beatrix. He shrugs. "Either way I have to go there and apologize, like you said.”

He takes a few steps out the door when Beatrix calls out to him. “There’s a decent liquor store right around the corner from the School.”

He sleeps it off, or at least, tries to. The embarrassment from the afternoon washes over him in waves of sweat and anxious thoughts all night. Making friends was a foolish notion to begin with. He’d heard of the Kings a long time before moving to Freeside, overheard from friendly conversations in Camp Forlorn Hope. What was naive curiosity was blown out of proportions over a silly misunderstanding. Arcade couldn’t help but rehash it over and over in his head.

The one thing that stops his seemingly-never-ending trail of thought is the sudden intrusive image of The King’s profile, blurry and bloody and mysterious.

* * *

 

 

The dog gets picked up from the Fort before Arcade wakes up to another exciting day of unearthing and repotting roots, unfortunately never interrupted by Julie’s arrival. She sends word that she’s found herself stuck between the Follower’s safehouse and the Horowitz Farmstead, but should make it in another night. Doctor Mortimer advises Arcade to wait another day before deciding on how to handle his business with The King.

He finds himself in the aforementioned liquor store that very night. Arcade couldn’t name the last drink he’d had, and neither does the clerk, for a different reason. His eyes gloss over the bottles, still unsure he would carry on with his plans for the evening. He goes for a dark wine that looks like it’s been rebottled into a old world label. It’s expensive enough to do the trick, and barely affordable enough for Arcade to purchase.

He takes a few steps outside, staring at his feet as he gets closer to the School, and walks face first into a metal door.

It feels to Arcade the very sound of the frame vibrates painfully into his skull. The hit itself isn’t too brutal, he can already tell his forehead would get nothing worse than a faint hematoma, but it echoes down his nose and makes him fold in half on the side of the empty road. He is, nevertheless, more shaken than injured, as he distinctly remembers there not being any doors on the way around the school, metal or otherwise. He holds on to his bottle and to the open door for support, and warmth covers his fingers.

He looks up to meet The King’s gaze and get a faceful of dog breath.

Oh, hell, does this man look handsome indeed. Jet black hair, perfectly brushed back, a fine jawline… But the first thing Arcade notices is his kind eyes. Even in an expression of surprise, he looks so smooth.

The King’s hand is still on top of Arcade’s, but he can’t bring himself to pull it away. By the time he collects his thoughts enough to speak, The King pulls him up to his feet gently.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry, are you alright? Did I–”

“I’m okay, really, it’s not…” The King cups Arcade’s face between his hands like a man who’s never had issues regarding personal space. In most circumstances Arcade would step back in a heartbeat, but the softness of his touch freezes him in place. It’s delicate, measured. The dog walks in circle around the pair, with difficulty, yet excitedly.

“…Oh.” After closer examination, The King suddenly lets go of him with a sheepish smile. “You’re that doctor from yesterday aren’t ya?” He runs a hand down the back of his neck. Arcade isn’t sure the street light behind him is playing tricks on him, but he seems to be blushing rapidly. His eyes fall on The King’s nose. There’s a darker spot between his bridge and his eye and… it looks dreadfully crooked.

Arcade lifts his hand to touch him back, only to be held back by his own manners, so he points to The King’s face halfway. “…Sir, your nose… I’m so sorry I didn’t think–”

“My nose’s been whacked by many a man before you, my friend.” He chuckles to himself. “I bet it’s been all messed up before you even became a doctor.”

Arcade’s eyebrow can’t help but twitch a little in surprise and confusion. The King was nothing like he imagined. All the other Kings he’d seen outside the fort were loud, cocky brats. This was the man who practically ruled these streets, decided who got to drink water another day and who didn’t; And there he was politely making small talk.

“Well… I wanted to apologize personally, what happened yesterday–”

The King waves him off with a smile, but seems a little surprised when it’s enough to interrupt Arcade. “…Was a misunderstanding. I’m sorry too, I ain’t usually like this.”

He looks down at his dog who had taken to lay on his side on the concrete, and his face changes. It’s painted with concern. He kneels down next to him.

“What’s gotten into you old boy? I thought you wanted to take a walk?”

The dog seems too tired to move its head, but blinks up at his master. Arcade had never much liked pets, they were too unpredictable, carried God knows what obscure illnesses; nonetheless, he could recognize a good dog when he saw one. The King gets back on his feet and speaks again, clearing his throat.

“Look, what say you come up to my room so we can talk in private. Wouldn’t be right to leave ya all shook up in the middle of the street. Looks like Rex needs a nap after all.”

It’s more a statement than a question. He finds himself following him inside before properly thinking it through. He puts it on being slammed in the forehead by a steel door.

* * *

 

 

As he opens the door to his room for him, the King dramatically leans back against the opening door and scoffs. “Where are my manners. I didn’t catch your name, young man.”

Arcade has an almost arrogant little smile. “I’m pretty sure we’re about the same age. Gannon, Arcade Gannon. Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

The King raises his eyebrows, shaking his hand. “I beg your pardon then. You look real young for a man in his mid-thirties.” He says with a hint of tease in his voice, almost like a tentative gotcha.

Arcade nods, chuckling, awkwardly fingering the tip of the bottle of wine poking out of his bag. He follows him into the room. “I’ve been told.”

Rex brushes past his legs and climbs into the large heart shaped bed.

“…Interesting décor.”

The King pulls a chair for Arcade and walks towards a cabinet in the corner of the room. “In my defense, it was here before we moved in… But at the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I picked the room for that reason.” He kneels down, looking for something inside, and gestures blindly at Arcade. “It’s a good thing I ran into you, I really wanted to apologize about yesterday, properly. I wasn’t myself and… Here.”

He turns around, and when Arcade sees what he’s holding, he puts a hand over his mouth to hide an embarrassed smile.

“I rarely visit the fort, and the one time I do I get into a fight with a new doctor…!” He sits across from him, resting his own bottle of wine on his thigh. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.” Arcade is most definitely blushing, and he tries hard not to laugh at the remark. "There’s no hard feelings, and I have the utmost respect for a man who won’t hesitate to protect his people. This was my fault. I want that to be clear.”

Arcade nods, and while the King does his little speech, he proceeds to pull the bottle out of his bag and rest it on his own thigh. He hunches forward with a laughter he can’t repress any longer.

“That is…”

“The exact same bottle, yes.” Arcade manages to articulate.

The King looks down for a second while Arcade tries to remember to breathe. He then gives him a pouty smile that grounds him in that moment. It’s the most charming smile he’s ever had directed at him.

“I have the feeling that under these circumstances, we’re obligated to open one of these bad boys right now.”

* * *

 

 

“… She insisted that there was nothing she could do for him and I just saw red. I can’t explain it. I love that stupid old mutt.” He glances back at Rex as if worried he would hear. He pauses for a moment, arm over the back of his chair, sadly looking at his sleeping dog. He sighs. “But enough about that. How’s the world treating you, Arcade?”

Arcade doesn’t ignore that he is a lightweight, but had unfortunately mimicked the King’s pace, and finds himself helplessly staring at the fine black hair on the nape of the man’s neck; the callous joints of his fingers. He blinks a few more times than necessary when he turns around to face him.

“I’d say it’s treating me fairly.” He taps the bridge of his nose. “Other than that I… don’t much like talking about myself, really.”

“We already have a lot in common, by the looks of it.”

“The other thing being…?”

The King taps his own nose the way Arcade did, briefly pointing at him, and winks. That’s unfair, Arcade thinks, giggling like a goddamn teenager.

The King gets up from his seat. “I should get us some water. You do have to get home somehow.” He crosses the room. “I wish I could be a gentleman and walk you to your place, but it’s not wise for me to leave at this hour anymore.”

In a strange moment of clarity, Arcade realizes he can hear him just as perfectly as when he was sitting in front of him.

“…Your voice is so clear, like a stage actor’s.” It slips him. He isn’t drunk enough that he isn’t in control of his words, but Arcade was never good at hiding truths.

“…Well, I suppose we’re all some sort of performers here in some sense.” He stops in his tracks, a jug of water in hand. “Where have you seen stage actors around here? Or maybe we’re not thinking of the same thing.”

Arcade shakes his head. “Pre-war Holotapes are rare and expensive and virtually useless, I happen to be one of the idiots starving themselves to collect them.”

The King stands a few steps away from him and flashes him another of his handsome smiles. “Idiots of feather flock together, I suppose.”

He takes back his seat in front of him and pours him a glass of water while Arcade digests that adorable remark. He hasn’t felt so comfortable (well, not as tense would be more accurate) with another man in quite some time, and reminds himself to savor the moment, as he so often forgets to.

Arcade watches him pour himself a glass and raise it towards his.

 

“To broken noses.”

Arcade snorts. “To invisible back doors.”


End file.
